A Flood of Blood to the Heart
by GirHugs
Summary: Stiles needs to be broken, loves how much it take for someone to break him. And Derek...well, he just needs to know that he's capable of mending the things - people - that he breaks. (Heed warnings inside; possibly pre-slash)
1. Breathe In

**Disclaimer:** Teen Wolf property of MTV.

**WARNING: This story contains elements of BDSM (but no sexual components).**

**A/N:** Inspiration and title taken from 'Bloodflood' by Alt-J.

* * *

A whistle. A warning. His body tenses and then there's a stinging lash of pain against the tender flesh of his back. His breath rushes from his lungs in a hiss of air. He barely has time to take in the sensation before the leather kisses his reddening skin once more.

He clenches his jaw to prevent any words from escaping but a high-pitched whine bursts from his throat without conscious control. The next lash breaks skin and he can feel the warm, slow trickle of blood down his left shoulder blade. He shifts minutely, knees scraping raw against the rough cement wall in front of him. His wrists ache and itch where they are bound above his head in scratchy, thick rope. A fleeting glance upwards. Maybe if he twists and turns, freedom is…

A burst of pain. His thoughts shatter.

Fire rushes through his veins and a gasp – of pain, of _reverence_ – escapes his lips.

"…yes."

XX

_"Why do you do it?" Derek's voice is more of a question than a growled demand. (Stiles still has a joking – and partially suicidal – urge to offer him a treat for learning the difference. Old dog, new tricks.)_

_Stiles doesn't feel pressured to answer and he still isn't entirely sure that he knows the why of it himself, so he settles for a simple shrug of his shoulders instead of using words._

XX

All he can hear is the dull roar of blood in his ears. The _thud thud thud_ of his heart has replaced the _thud thud thud_ of the blunt object hitting his tender skin. Adrenaline rushes through him, setting his veins afire, and it is the best high a person can ever achieve.

He welcomes the pain. Relishes in it. He pushes back into the next blow. His back and the paddle collide in a harsh embrace, like angry lovers.

_XX_

_"You don't get aroused by it," Derek says one night when Stiles comes back smelling of pain and satisfaction. "At least, not sexually."_

_"No." And it's the truth. Because it isn't about sex. Not for him. _

XX

Warm liquid gushes into his mouth as the next slap glances across his cheekbone. His thoughts are fuzzy and hazy and he feels content.

"...thank you, thank you, thank you…" he mumbles, lifting his face to receive the next hit.

_XX_

_He's curled up over the toilet, throat aching. The bitter smell of stomach acid stings his nose and he can feel the hot burn of tears searing a path down his cheeks. The crash isn't pleasant and his body is trying to purge itself of the adrenaline overload._

_"…it's not the same," Derek observes, confusion evident in the words. Derek's hand is a strong weight along his back. Steady. Comforting._

_His body clenches in another dry heave and Stiles shakes his head frantically. "No," he rasps out. "No." It's not the same at all. _

_When the rush of adrenaline is brought about by a life-or-death situation (with the odds heavily favoring death, because that's just their luck), then it's…_

_…it's just _not the same_._

XX

A solid fist crashes into his ribs and forcibly pushes all air from his lungs. Luckily, the only sound he hears is a low, hollow _thump_. No _snap_ or _crack_ to signal a shattering of bone. He likes the pain, but he also needs to be functional - unbreakable - afterwards; life outside this space is too dangerous.

_XX_

_"It's not…" Derek frowns, shifts in his seat, and looks almost uncomfortable. "You don't have to prove anything to us, you know."_

_Stiles might have laughed a few years ago, denied that he ever felt the need to prove something to them, to himself. But they're all close enough now, trust each other enough, that he feels safe in acknowledging the fact that, in the beginning, he might have started down this path just to test how much it took for him to break. (Because it's necessary to factor in those sorts of variables when planning how to defeat the current Big Bad.)_

_But…that's not the reason he continues to do it. He's tested his limits. He knows just how much he can endure. Takes pride in it, in fact._

XX

His whole body aches. His thoughts are disjointed and yet oh so clear. Pain is his bright reality and everything else just fades into the background.

There's a presence looming over him. Before he has time to brace himself, the rope is released and he crumples to the ground. He has to actively remember the _in, out, in, out_ pattern to breathing.

Rough fingers curl into his hair, anchoring him.

"Strong, so strong…" the words are pressed into his heated skin.

Stiles tilts his head up to meet Derek's piercing gaze. He smiles, bloody and sated.

"I know." Because he does.

* * *

A/N: I might write something from Derek's POV, but still undecided. (If I do, it will be added as the second chpt to this story)


	2. Exhale

Derek relies on muscle memory to inflict the pain that Stiles requires, distances himself from his own body, his own actions. He doesn't enjoy causing Stiles pain.

But he's Derek Hale. So hurting the ones he cares about is really just…_inevitable_.

XX

_"You want to…" Stiles shakes his head, seemingly having a hard time wrapping his head around what Derek just asked. "Why?"_

_Not quite ready to admit the truth of it to himself or Stiles, Derek just shrugs, copying Stiles's answer from when Derek had asked him the very same question months ago._

_"Do you trust me to?" He asks, intently listening to Stiles's heartbeat as he answers._

_"Of course." Steady. Honest._

_"So, yes or no?"_

_Stiles narrows his bright eyes as he studies Derek's face. Derek isn't sure what he's looking for, but after a minute, Stiles nods his head slowly._

_"Yeah, sure."_

XX

Considering their pack consists of werewolves, a hunter, a banshee, and a human, it isn't surprising, really, that their enemies tend to target Stiles. He's the weak link. The common one. The simple human. That – incorrect – assumption is often their downfall. Stiles is anything but weak.

The body strung up in front of him is the ultimate testament to that fact.

Bruises and scars mar the span of skin before him. There are too many to count, now, and he doubts Stiles would be able to tell him which ones he got just trying to stay alive and which ones he begged for to try and feel alive.

"…do it," Stiles whispers, head dipped low between his shoulders.

Derek presses fingers into flesh and Stiles lets out a gasp as blood blossoms under pale skin.

XX

_"Are things going to be…awkward now?"_

_Stiles lets out a snort of laughter. "You mean, any more awkward than the conversations between an emotionally stunted Sourwolf and a spastic, rambling human usually are?"_

_He clenches his hands in frustration and glares at the ground._

_There's a pause of silence. "No," Stiles says, voice suddenly serious. "Hey," he calls and Derek looks up to meet his assessing gaze. "Do you judge me for my needs?"_

_Derek immediately shakes his head. "No, of course not." He might not understand Stiles's needs. But he doesn't judge Stiles for having them._

_"Good." Tension bleeds out of Stiles's body in a way that tells Derek he was concerned about the answer. "And I don't judge you for yours, whatever they may be. So…" Stiles shrugs his shoulders, "It won't be awkward," he finishes, as if it's so simple._

_Derek nods along because he wants to believe – it won't be. (He knows better than to ask if things will change. They both know they will. Just maybe not for the worse like Derek fears.)_

XX

Derek is more than used to the smell of blood.

And given how much violence they encounter on a day-to-day basis (the parade of beings hell bent on killing them seems never ending), he can't say he understands why Stiles feels the need to invite – and enjoy – more.

"...please…" Stiles begs and Derek runs his claw across fragile skin. Blood flows.

Stiles needs to be broken, loves how much it takes for someone to break him.

And Derek…well, he just needs to know that he can mend the things – _people_ – that he breaks.

XX

_"You don't…get off on it either," Stiles says, a little unsure about his conclusion. He doesn't have the ability to scent (the lack of) sexual arousal like Derek can. But he is good at reading people – Derek especially._

_"No," Derek grunts in confirmation._

_Stiles just bobs his head in easy acceptance and then walks into the living room to join the rest of the pack for movie night._

XX

He might not enjoy causing Stiles pain, but he can readily admit that he admires the savage beauty of seeing Stiles just take the pain and ask for _more more more_.

"Strong," he whispers, breathless. It's almost inconceivable, how much this human can endure. "So strong."

Stiles lifts his head and grins at him, dark and wild. "I know."

And Derek thinks that maybe that's why Stiles does this.

XX

_"We know you care," Stiles blurts randomly._

_"What?" Derek turns to the human, confused and frowning._

_"You care," Stiles repeats, fidgeting under his watchful eyes. "You're not like…touchy-feely or anything. But we all know."_

_"That I care," Derek says slowly._

_"Right," Stiles confirms._

_"…okay," Derek stretches out the word. Stiles flashes him a quick smile and then retreats from the kitchen. Derek watches him go. "Okay."_

XX

He has to bite back a groan, astounded by the sheer amount of pain seeping black into his veins.

It took him a few sessions to convince Stiles to let him do this. But that first time Stiles allowed it…Stiles knew. Derek didn't expect to be able to hide the sheer _need_ he felt to fix, mend, heal.

Stiles leans back into him, accepting the support. His racing heart starts to calm and slow. Derek finishes draining the pain and then squeezes Stile's hand once – in thanks – before letting him go.

"Listen to my heart."

Derek moves one hand to Stiles's chest, obeys the command, listens and feels.

"You're a good man," Stiles says, low and fierce, willing Derek to _believe_ him, to recognize the truth of his words.

...Derek thinks that he might be starting to.


End file.
